The Seven Letters Page 6

  ‘I thought he’d spotted something about me,’ said Claudette, allowing herself a breath of relief.

  ‘No, he does it at random, picks on someone, sometimes he pushes them around. The Boches think he’s a prick, but they like how he keeps the poor sods on edge. Helps them to spot the ones who have something to hide.’

  He took Claudette’s arm and pulled her through the milieu of people outside the station. Everyone coming or going made way for the Nazis whose imperious presence was ubiquitous and in stark contrast to the dejected and jaded expressions of the Parisians.

  ‘Keep walking,’ said Jacques. ‘This way.’ There was a beggar kneeling on the pavement, his eyes hidden beneath wild grey brows. When he caught hold of Claudette’s dress, she thought it would tear and pulled it sharply out of his grasp. Jacques swore at him and pulled her along the road. ‘I told you, keep walking,’ he snapped.

  There was no time to take anything in, but the dirt and squalor outside the station blocked their path so that they had to walk around debris and discarded rubbish. They headed along a broad main street. Soldiers sat outside the cafés, boots resting on the chairs in front of them, laughing with one another as people hurried quickly by. Jacques took a left turn and headed across the road. She tripped after him, her feet pinching in her shoes. There was no room on the pavement because people were standing four deep across it. They were listless in the heat of the sun, bunching up towards a butcher’s shop, their faces weary. Another queue was forming on the opposite side of the road.

  ‘What are they queuing for?’ she asked as they passed a woman holding a crying baby. She was pressing it against her shoulder patting its back, her eyes watering. People were gesticulating at her, telling her to leave the queue and take it home.

  ‘Meat,’ he replied stiffly. ‘A slice of horse if they are very lucky and a few crumbs of cheese; there is no food.’

  ‘No food?’

  ‘Not for the poor and the lowly, it’s been getting worse; the Boches take everything. Bastards.’

  Paris was busy, its citizens moving about at a pace. Women in high heels walked by in twos and threes, handbags hanging from their arms, white gloves in hand, but as they passed Claudette she saw the gloves were dirty, the bags scuffed, the heels chipped.

  There were queues at every corner, some of the people patient, others breaking out into scuffles as they neared the shop. The heat of the city was almost unbearable and Claudette felt as if she was melting. Perspiration ran between her breasts, her dress was sticking to her skin.

  At the end of the road they passed a small café in a back street with a couple of Frenchmen sitting outside. They were smoking so that the rough edged odour of cigarette smoke mingled with the heat haze. They turned down a narrow street, Favelle taking a sharp right turn and then left. His brisk pace was unrelenting.

  ‘You can be stopped anywhere,’ he told her, ‘and questioned.’

  She ran after him, trying to avoid the clusters of rubbish on the pavement. ‘In here, now.’ He pushed her inside a pair of doors, half-glazed, a filigree of decorative wrought iron in front of the dirty glass. The building was refreshingly cool.

  ‘Upstairs, quickly,’ he whispered urgently. ‘Right to the top, no noise.’ She took the marble stairs two at a time on her toes. It curved around four floors, on each level passing anonymous, unnumbered doors, the paint peeling off them. All the nameplates were empty, the names removed.

  The room at the top was small and airless. There was a single round window through which the sun streamed on to a bare, wooden floor. ‘It’s awful in here,’ she said breathlessly, ‘can I open the window?’

  ‘What? Yes, it needs a push, do it quietly though.’ Once open, the fresh air was a relief, the sound of the city below a distant hum and only the occasional car horn could be heard. Claudette took in deep gulps of air and pulled her dress away from her sticky skin. When she turned around Favelle was watching her, one of his eyelids drooping, his face red with heat. He ran an eye over her as if she was a horse he was buying.

  ‘He’s right,’ he said, ‘that policeman, you’re not what I expected. There is an idea of what a woman of the Resistance looks like and you’re not it.’

  ‘How many have you met?’

  ‘Just you,’ he said with a curt nod of the head. ‘As I said, it’s not what I expected.’

  ‘Well, I’m all you’ve got,’ she said with defiance, she was tired of being treated this way by older men.

  ‘That’s what worries me,’ he replied.

  ‘If I’m not what is expected it will surely give me an advantage?’ she countered, but he wasn’t interested. She looked around the room. There was a stack of boxes, a mattress, a small stove and a table, but no traces of anyone living there. No blankets, food, crockery.

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘Shelter from the storm,’ he replied. ‘A pot to piss in.’ She leant against the window ledge, the soft breeze cooling her back a little.

  ‘Is this where I’m working?’

  ‘God no, this is where I brief you and it’s for you to know about if you need it. Though if you ever do need it you might find you have a room-mate or two. It’s essential that no one sees you coming in or going out and that you never make a noise. If we’re lucky, it’ll never come to that; I’ll show you where the key is hidden.’

  ‘Is there anything to drink?’

  He produced a flask from his pocket, unscrewed it and poured water into the lid. She took it and sipped only a little, exactly as Yves had taught her. ‘I see they’ve taught you something’ said Favelle with a smirk. She ignored him, he was too much like Joubert.

  ‘So are you briefing me?’

  He swigged from the flask and wiped his hand across his mouth. Claudette watched him, he was unrefined and brutish. Had her real brother lived past his second birthday and not died of tuberculosis, she imagined he would have been a better man, a good man, like Yves.

  ‘You will be working at twelve Rue Ercol, as a maid. It’s frequented by Boches, all the time. You will be watching, listening, being discreet, always discreet and you will act as if you are deaf and blind to what goes on.’

  ‘Is it a hotel?’

  ‘No, I’ll come to that, just wait.You will cook and clean, I’m told you can sew, is it true?’

  ‘Yes, my mother and I sew and mend for people, since the invasion we’ve had a lot of work to do.’

  ‘You’ll have a lot more of it to do here.’

  ‘Am I starting tonight?’ All at once she had the uncomfortable feeling that she and Favelle were spending the night together in this cramped oven of a room.

  ‘Yes, I’m taking you there at six. I have told Madame Odile that you are my sister and she is happy enough. She trusts me, I do errands for her.’

  ‘What does your job involve?’

  ‘For her? I drive the car, when we can get any petrol, I do maintenance and I am security when I’m needed. For us,’ he paused. ‘I do what you will be doing, but I can’t get close enough, that’s why you’re here.’

  ‘What am I listening for?’

  ‘Anything. You pass on to me absolutely anything you hear that can help us, these Germans get sloppy when their boots are off.’ As if to prove the point he took out a packet of German cigarettes and lit one. ‘They are very careless with whisky inside them too. You want one?’ It was obvious, as he held the open pack towards her that he was hoping she’d refuse. She did.

  ‘Do I have a day off?’ Claudette changed tack.

  ‘No, you get fed instead. Don’t worry, there is nothing to have a day off for, the Germans have seen to that. They’re in every street, every hotel, every café. You’ll hear gunfire and find you’ll have to walk the long way home to avoid it.’ He took a drag on the cigarette. ‘For us it’s safer to stay inside.’


  ‘And this guest house?’

  ‘What guest house?’

  ‘Where I’m working.’

  His laugh was mostly a sneer.

  ‘It’s not a guest house, it’s a brothel, a whore house.’ Her gasp was audible and he continued to scoff. ‘Plain little Catholic country girl finds work in brothel, your mother would cry no doubt.’

  Claudette rose to the challenge. ‘Actually, I think she’d expect me to do anything I could for a free France, to free us.’

  ‘Noble talk,’ he said, dropping the stub of his cigarette on the floor and grinding it into the wooden floorboard with his shoe. ‘I don’t think we’ll ever be free again, we have conceded, we’ve caved in without a fight. It’s humiliating, but we’ll have to live with it now.’

  Claudette studied him, the open pores of his nose, dark eyes, the yellowing teeth and the coarse black beard. He was repulsive. He stood up abruptly and looked out of the window, leaning out over the wide ledge to look down on the street.

  ‘I’m going out, I’ll be back at six. Do not move,’ he ordered.

  She nodded.

  ‘Practise everything you’ve learned about Françoise Favelle, go over it again and again. What’s her favourite colour? What food does she miss? Recite your birth date, you’ve been doing this already, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied.

  ‘Good.’ He was about to turn the doorknob when he looked back at her.

  ‘Do you have a sister?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I don’t, I have no siblings.’

  ‘So you’ve had to learn all about me, too.’

  ‘Yes, everything.’

  ‘Won’t they check, at some point, if not now?’

  ‘They’ll find everything is in place, we’re from a farm near Vacily. Our parents left in the Exodus and are missing.’

  She nodded. ‘But won’t they find out you never had a sister, in some way?’

  ‘No, Jacques Favelle did have a sister, Françoise, and they lived on a farm. It wasn’t near Vacily, but that’s been sorted out.’

  ‘Your name isn’t Jacques Favelle?’

  ‘Of course my name isn’t Jacques Favelle. We’re both working under assumed names, forget that and you’re dead. Worse than that, I’m dead, and when they kill you they take their time, they like to make us suffer.’ With that he opened the door a crack and peered out. As he prepared to leave he turned back once again to Claudette and whispered, ‘If I don’t come back, go to twelve Rue Ercol, they know you are coming.’

  Chapter Eleven

  I was sitting in the garden, nursing a mug of tea and missing Freddy. He and I had tea together on a Sunday afternoon from time to time. We used to sit side by side on the ancient garden swing, the rusted chains just about holding up the grey slatted seat. The garden was overgrown, the lawn patchy and the shrubs that had valiantly flowered amongst the weeds and grasses were dying back in the heat. There was a thin path of crazy paving through the parched turf and at the end of it a stone shed. When I heard the scrambling sound from behind it I knew what to expect. Sid, next door’s dog, appeared with the familiar look of surprise on his face, as if he’d never broken in before. He was a rescue beagle who often popped in to eat anything he could find and wee on everything else.

  ‘Sid,’ I clicked my tongue and, on seeing me, he made a beeline for my lap, landing with a heavy thump and licking my face with great earnest. He was panting and was soon off again looking under the chair for crumbs from the chocolate biscuit I’d eaten. He sniffed around, keeping one eye on the back door at all times, I knew he was waiting for Freddy to appear.

  ‘He’s not here, Sid,’ I said with a sigh. ‘He’s gone.’ As soon as I said it I felt a deep crushing pain inside me, I really was going to miss my old friend very much. He was a lovely man, quiet at times and thoughtful, or loud and often risqué, a really old luvvie. Of course most of the time he’d been ill and more often than not I’d call round for tea on a Sunday and he’d be in bed; when he was on form, though, no one could deny he was an absolute joy to know.

  I wondered what Matt was doing. I had been thinking of him whilst I sorted through the boxes of programmes and scripts I’d found. Freddy had worked with them all – Gielgud, Olivier, Richardson, their faces on gloss paper of programmes going back to the fifties. The last was dated nineteen seventy nine when Freddy had had his first severe bipolar episode. After that, he told me, he could never function properly and he had to give up writing. Hat told me it was depression, not anxiety, a remnant of the grief of his mother dying, of losing his only tie to the world.

  Sid’s tail was wagging like a metronome as he zigzagged around the garden, nose to the ground. He did another fly-past, his wet nose touching the tips of my fingers and then he was gone, back through the gap in the fence. It was deliberately left for him to come and go as he pleased.

  Once again it was quiet and I sat long after I had finished my drink, knowing I had to go back indoors and carry on in Freddy’s room, but wanting instead to sit in the sun letting it warm my face. Eventually, as I stood up, a grey watery cloud pushed across the blue of the sky and it began to spot with rain.

  The room felt empty without Matt, but it allowed me to be lost in my own thoughts and I took it slowly, picking up books and getting immersed in the odd chapter, or reading a cutting that Freddy had jammed between the pages in a reference book.

  A bluebottle buzzed against the window and when the noise began to irritate me, I stood up and leaned across to open it. There was a pile of books in the way and I knocked one, a copy of David Copperfield bound in black leather with gold type, to the floor. It fell with a thud, disturbing dust that puffed up into a miniature cloud. It caught, splayed open on the crossbar of the chair, and a letter fell out. I picked it up, turning it round to read it; it was another one written by Freddy.

  St. Patricks School for BOys

  Lymstead

  13th July 1955

  Dear Papa,

  I have not heard from you but I know that you must think of me often, Mama is dead. I thought you shold know. I have been very sad indeed and I think you would be if you knew. Mama said you were a very nice man and that I am quite like you because I am a gentleman.

  I hope you will soon come and take me away from boarding school as I don’t like it at all, specilly sports. I like doing English and drama.

  Kind regards

  Fredrik

  I turned it over, there was nothing on the reverse, the paper was folded neatly in three, the writing was in ink and not pencil as before. There was no envelope and no hint of the address of the person who was to receive it.

  I slid it into a brown A4 envelope with the other one to show Hat when she came home, and carried on. The rain was pattering against the window. I clicked on the radio and listened to Radio Two whilst I sifted through the scripts of a BBC Play for Today, pink or pale blue paper bound with a yellow or green cover. They were all typed and the actors had made their own notes in pencil with lots of crossings out. Only one or two had put their names on the cover, and I didn’t recognise them, so I didn’t know if I was looking at scripts once held by a big star, a supporting role or a producer. I found myself wondering what it would have been like to rub shoulders with that sort of talent. Those famous names familiar still; Freddy must have been very special.

  I found a photograph of a young bright-faced Freddy with a group of actors. They had uncorked a bottle of champagne and the shutter had clicked the very second the cork had been fired. All of them were laughing, all eyes focussed on the spray of liquid bursting from the bottle. I recognised some of the faces, but the names were lost to me – well before my time.

  The next photograph was of The Wyndam Theatre’s blue stage door, then a picture of a Windmill Girl covering herself demurely in ostrich feather fans. It was signed ‘With all my love,
Jilly.’ There were some nondescript theatre shots of plays, and then, rising to the surface, appeared a black and white photo of Marlene Dietrich.

  I looked at the handwriting to see if it was a printed or an authentic autograph. The ink sat on the surface of the glossy paper, definitely signed as I thought, an original signature in dark blue ink. She was beautiful, thin eyebrows, thick lashes, long slender nose and absolutely perfect lips. Her nails, resting against her face, were long and neatly painted. I looked at my own nail varnished fingers as I held the photo, they were all chipped and cracked. The blouse she was wearing was sheer with clusters of sequins, looking as if they’d been sprayed on her. The handwriting, in contrast, was surprisingly scruffy, in fact more what I would describe as a scrawl. It said simply; ‘Fredrik, Best wishes. Marlene. X’

  I knew it was worth money, a genuine, autographed photo, and I suspected the family would probably sell it. I stared at her face, wondering what would happen if I slipped it into my own pile, between the copy of The Merchant of Venice and Star of the Sea and then I corrected myself for even thinking that way. I was never dishonest, something my father was very clear about. “Have nothing in your past that can catch up with you later.”

  I put the picture in the envelope with Freddy’s letters because I wanted to show Matt before it went and, of course, Hat. She was late, she’d aimed to be back for five and it was nearly six fifteen. I carried on, there were letters from friends, tales of holidays and far away places. ‘Capri is beautiful, you must come out;’ ‘Biarritz is crowded but Faye and Ronnie are here, great value as always;’ ‘Bunny was a hoot and says to wish you best for the final curtain;’ ‘Jack is working on getting the play to The Garrick, he’s sure as am I that it will run and run.’ There were bills and calling cards and the trivia of theatreland. I found myself envying his life, the life before he was drowning in sadness. I was looking at an album of random photos when Hat appeared at the door, making me jump with fright.